


Cuddle Therapy

by TriscuitsandSoup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dubcon Cuddling, Fluff, Good Peter, Hugging, M/M, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Pheromones, Platonic Cuddling, Therapist Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:16:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6431425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Do not be alarmed; I am a cuddle therapist,” the omega said, continuing his shoulder nuzzles. His voice held all the authority of the police or an FBI Agent, not the <i>cuddle therapist</i> he claimed to be. Peter scoffed. <i>Cuddly therapy</i> was just an excuse for unmated alphas and omegas to go around throwing their musk and pheromones at anyone who looked twice in their direction.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Where Peter is being grumpy in a museum and is interrupted by a very determined cuddle therapist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The museum had always been a calming place for him, but not today. Peter extended and retracted his claws, watching them glint under the bright fluorescent lighting. He couldn't fully rescind them back into their sheathes, his talk with Talia still fresh in his mind. Her words keeping him in a perpetual state of anger and misery. She said he was too raw to ever be the pack alpha. He was too raw, but her emotionally charged daughter with the intelligence of a snail was perfectly suited to continue their packs legacy. Maybe if she ever learned to think properly.

He kneaded his claws against his leg, watching those around him circulate the gallery with a quiet fascination, a soft pensiveness. He wondered how much better pack life would be if any of his pack ever stopped to think. Not that it would ever occur to any of those idiots to-”

“Oof!” he winced as he suddenly received a warm, overly exuberant hug. The strangers' arms wrapped around him tight, forcing his own appendages down and trapping them at his side. The feeling of being hugged like this was foreign to him. A rush of cinnamon-scented pheromones hit his nostrils and made them flare. Squinting his eyes open he saw a pretty, brunette omega happily nuzzling against his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he put as much dripping condescension into his tone as he could reasonably manage, but not a single finger of the boys' grip loosened. He snarled at the omega, giving him a look that clearly stated 'go away,' but the boy continued to persistently cling. The idea that this was just a case of mistaken identity was quickly disproved.

“Do not be alarmed; I am a cuddle therapist,” the omega said, continuing his shoulder nuzzles. His voice held all the authority of the police or an FBI Agent, not the cuddle therapist he claimed to be. Peter scoffed. Cuddly therapy was just an excuse for unmated alphas and omegas to go around throwing their musk and pheromones at anyone who looked twice in their direction. “My keen sense of observation tells me that you are in great distress,” he turned up his eyes, which were wide and brown, looking at him like the last puppy in the pet store.

“You know the whole 'don't be alarmed' thing is supposed to come before you do the thing that’s alarming,” he spat. He scooted back on the bench and wedged his knee up to separate them. It only served to give the omega leverage as he wormed closer and pressed their cheeks together, throwing his arms around Peters' neck. Normally, he would have been more than happy to have a willing omega pawing all over him, but this-

“My name is Stiles,” the omega announced, a little muffled from having their faces squished together. Peters lack of enthusiasm didn't seem to bother him the slightest.

“It's very nice to meet you, Stiles,” Peter gruffed. “Now could you get off?” Stiles appeared to contemplate his request while trying – rather poorly – to get underneath his arm. Peter pressed as far back against the bench as he could without falling off.

“That would be irresponsible of me. You're in distress. What if you decide to go on some alpha-rage rampage through the town?” Peter had never in his life considered punching an omega until this very moment. He glowered at the boy, who finally seemed to take a hint and backed off a little. Only a little. Their thighs were still touching but at least his arms had fallen away.

“I can assure you that won't happen.” He put his hands on Stiles' chest and moved him back another few inches. Surprisingly the omega obliged and put up no resistance to being moved. As Peter pulled his hands back he noticed they were no longer clawed. Then another wave of cinnamon scent hit his nose.

“Stop pumping your pheromones at me,” he warned with a sharp look.

The boy shrugged. “What's your name?”

“Peter. Do you always make a habit of rubbing yourself all over strangers?” He kept his gaze heavy and even with the unperturbed omega.

“Hey, at least I didn't piss on your shoes,” the omega grinned a wide, goofy type smile. Peter ignored the very slight lifting of his own lips.

“No, but seriously, you seem upset. Want to talk about it?” He drew his legs up to his knees and rested his head on them. They were still rather close together, sharing the bench, but it was better than having him practically in his lap. The scent of cinnamon that still lingered was bearable.

“No,” he said, with less heat in his voice. The omega nudged him with his head. He sighed. “Why do you care, Stiles?”

“Because I want to make you feel better,” he tilted his head to the side, and once more reminded Peter of a downtrodden puppy. A poorly trained, downtrodden puppy, but a puppy all the same.

“Why?” he furrowed his brow.

“Because it's what I do! I make big scary alphas like yourself feel all warm and snugly inside,” to emphasize the boy hugged himself and smiled in a way that made his eyes squint. At least he was cute, Peter could give him that much.

“Cuddle therapy is a joke,” he said with a roll of his eyes, and he meant it, too. “If I wanted an omega to get his scent all over me then I could just go out and get one. I'm certain that's not what I want.”

“That's the problem with alphas,” Stiles replied in a sing-song voice. “Sometimes you don't know that's what you want, and you're too stubborn to ask for it.” He didn't try to push Stiles head away when it rested on his shoulder again. He told himself it was because it wasn't worth the effort. “That's why I help.”

“Yes, because having a stranger come up and stick his scent all over me is exactly what I needed today.” He gave another roll of his eyes, but the omegas grin only widened.

“Oh, no? Then where'd your claws go, tough guy?” he was practically smirking now.

“Sneaky little bastard,” he muttered, looking once more to his fully human hands.

“So, are you going to accept my services now, or not?” Peter sighed, he couldn't even remember what his argument had been about. Something about family. In any case, it couldn't be too harmful to just indulge the omega for a little while, if it meant he'd go on his merry way.

“Fine,” he finally relented, lifting up his arm in defeat. The omega was quick to wiggle his way underneath it. Peter placed his hand against the strange omegas hip and pulled him closer, letting his head rest on top of the boys. If he was going to actually let this ridiculous scenario happen, he would let this ridiculous scenario happen the right way. The boy started to emit his pheromones with earnest this time. His warm, cinnamon scent wafted around them like a protective bubble. Peters' shoulders relaxed as he inhaled it. It was like taking a warm bath on the coldest day of the year. He closed his eyes and ran his hand up and down the omegas back. The omega purred, pleased.

“You aren't going to charge me for this, are you?” he asked suspiciously, squinting one eye open. “Because if so, I'd rather you give me the bill now.”

Stiles shook his head. “No. The first one's always free,” he opened his eyes and winked; they sparkled with a mischievous light. “But if you want to cuddle me again, I might charge you next time.” Peter snorted.

“Who says there's going to be a 'next time'?”

“There will be a next time,” Stiles hummed, knowingly. With that, the boy reached into his coat pocket and produced a small card that had his name, dynamic, and a cell number. “There's always a next time.” Peter looked at the card. He could have just refused it, or tore it in half, but instead he took the rectangular piece of paper and tucked it into his pocket. Because after all, Stiles was rather cute, and he did fit perfectly under his arm.

Maybe there was something to cuddle therapy after all. Or maybe there was just something to Stiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets his next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is 18 here and in college, and Peter works as an editor.

Peter sat as far away as he could from the rest of his relatives. It was hard to keep calm when the entire lot of them had the combined intelligence of a squirrel. They kept shouting out half-baked plans that made no logical sense. His claws forced their way out. He wasn't the type to rage out and go throwing things – and people – through walls, like his nephew, but his family had a unique ability to get underneath his skin. He flexed and retracted his claws, thinking he could do with a good cup of tea or some cinnamon. His mind flashed suddenly and without warning to the omega boy he'd met a week ago.

There were several mated and unmated omegas attending the pack meeting. The ones with mates sat either on, or nearby their alphas, nuzzling their heads into their alphas throats or chests. The unmated omegas in the room packed together and formed a small omega puddle on one of the sofas, dangling their legs over each other. They didn't seem too concerned with the alphas pointless bickering, only one or two of them bothered to be part of the conversation at all, for the most part, they were contented to intertwine with one another on the overloaded furniture. Peter thought Stiles would have been among the few debating.

He remembered the boys taunt about their always being a 'next time,' and narrowed his eyes. He didn't need to call. He didn't need therapy in the first place. Yet he could still feel the light weight of the paper card in his pocket. He felt it all throughout the meeting, more specifically when Talia started talking about 'restructuring' the organization so Laura could take on a more prominent role.

He grasped his hands tight inside his coat and thought of creeping over to the omega puddle and pulling one or two of them out. He might have actually done it, if the last person who tried to interfere with their pheromone fest hadn't left with a rather sizable scratch down his right arm.

So he sat quietly until the meeting ended with his fists in his pockets, only bothering to pipe up once or twice to point out the others stupidity. The hand in the same pocket as the card ran lightly over the textured surface of the paper.

He couldn't help but fish it out as soon as he arrived home. He thought about tearing it up, or throwing it away, but the idea made his stomach twist in an unfamiliar way. Stiles Stilinski; Cuddle Therapist, it read in bold, printed letters, beside that was the universal symbol for omegas. He traced the arch with his finger and pulled out his cell phone, dialing in the number at the bottom of the card.

It rang once.

Then twice.

Then 'click.'

“Hello?” a sleepy voice answered on the third ring. Peter checked the time, it was close to midnight.

“Is this Stiles?”

“Yes. How can I help you?” he heard a muffled yawn on the other end.

“It's Peter.”

“Peter?” he repeated with a note of confusion. “Ooooh,” his voice shifted up an octave. “Peter, the grumpy alpha from the museum? Finally decide cuddle therapy is real after all?” His voice was teasing but interested. Peter sat down on the sofa, kicking his legs up against the armrest.

“I'm still undecided. Come over, and we'll find out.”

“Right now?” he could hear some shuffling around, the flipping of pages. “It's way late. I kind of make a point of not going to strange alphas homes in the middle of the night. If you wait until tomorrow I can meet you at the museum again,” more page flips, “at like, four?”

“No, tomorrow doesn't work for me.” Peter held his hand up and looked at the still present claws. The tips were tinged with black. He grimaced at them. Despite what some might have believed he didn't like being angry, and he didn't like spending most of his waking hours sleep deprived and snarling. “Come here tonight. If I plan on murdering you I'll give you a ten-minute warning.”

Stiles laughed. “Points for honesty. Okay, but only for a few hours. I have school in the morning.”

“Alright,” Peter agreed. He couldn't imagine he'd need more than a few hours anyways. He gave Stiles the address to his apartment and hung up the phone. He saved the contact information as 'Nuisance.'

Within thirty minutes Stiles was there, knocking at the door. Peter let him in and guided him towards the living room.

“Woah, this is a nice place,” Stiles said as he entered the room, his eyes lingering over the furniture. He wore a blue plaid shirt over a pair of well-worn jeans. It wasn't the outfit he personally would have picked, but it did suit him in his odd way. If he had been about to go to bed he didn't look it. His hair was slightly mussed, but Peter got the impression it might always look like that. Stiles turned to him with another one of his bright smiles.

“Yes,” Peter agreed, smirking. He took as much pride in his possessions as he did his physical appearance. “Now come here,” he sat on the sofa and opened his arms for Stiles to join him.

Stiles didn't. He remained firmly rooted in the doorway, not moving an inch.

“You understand I'm not some sort of cuddle prostitute, right?” the boy quirked a dark brow. “I'm a therapist. A licensed therapist. I even accept prescriptions,” he smirked.

“Oh, well forgive me,” Peter said flippantly. “Do you want me to fill out a patient chart first? Tell you my allergies?” He tapped his foot impatiently when Stiles still didn't move.

“Nothing like that, no. I want you to ask me first.”

“Ask you?” Peter said skeptically.

“Ask me.” Stiles nodded.

“So, just to clarify, you want me to ask you to do the thing I'm paying you to do? Does that about sum it up?”

Stiles grinned. “Now you're getting it.”

“So you're willing to jump into my arms only when I'm not paying you?” The boy shrugged. His eyes went distant just as he started to speak.

“It's important to develop a pattern of mutual trust and respect, both parties should express consent and willingness to-” Peter didn't need to hear the rest of it.

“Okay; please, Stiles, come here.” Stiles snapped out of his quotations and looked at the were.

“'Please' doesn't make it a question,” he pointed out. Peter made a very put-upon sigh. He was just annoyed and sleep deprived enough to put up with him.

“Stiles. Please, would you come and sit on the sofa, if you feel like doing that sometime today?” Stiles beamed brightly.

“I'd love too!” He shrugged off his jacket, hopped over the armrest of the sofa, and practically dive bombed into the werewolfs' chest, kicking off his shoes as he did so. Peter winced at the sudden impact of elbows in his stomach. He growled and wrapped an arm around the omegas waist.

“Do you give refunds for personal damage?”

“Nope!” Stiles shouted cheerfully, nuzzling at his throat. He lay out completely and rested limp against his chest. Peter could feel his rabbit heart beating through his shirt. “You can move me if you want, I'm not picky about cuddles.”

“Noted,” Peter said. He shifted Stiles slightly so the boy was more underneath him and less on top of him. Pleased, he tucked the omegas head underneath his. The scent he'd been craving drifted into his nostrils. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of it fill his head space. The omega let out a few low, rumbling purrs that matched in time with his breathing.

Peter pressed his nose against the omegas hairline where his pheromone scent was strongest and let the world fall away. For a while all he knew was was soft breathing, rumbling purrs, and the warming scent of cinnamon melting in the air. He trailed his fingers up and down the boys' spine, petting him softly as the omega relaxed against his chest. Before he knew what was happening he was completely enveloped in the soft blanket of pheromone Stiles created around them. He could feel the steady rhythm of the boy's heart through his shirt. It was pleasant. Calm. Then the scent started to disappear.

He opened his eyes to see the omega looking at him with a sleepy but decisive expression. He shifted up into a sitting position and yawned.

“What are you doing?” Peter asked in a slurred, dazed voice. He'd almost fallen asleep. “Come lie back down.” He pressed encouragingly on the small of the boys back.

“Times up,” Stiles muttered. “I've got to go home.” He was already pulling his shoes back on.

“No, you don't. Stay longer.” Sleep was so, painstakingly close, it felt like torture to have it pulled from his grasp like this. He wondered briefly what the punishment for kidnapping an omega was.

“I told you, I've got school in the morning. Also, you owe me forty dollars.” He held his hand out.

“Forty?” Peter raised his brow.

“Technically it should be eighty, since it's a late night visit and on a Sunday,” he explained as he stood and stretched out his back, his shirt rode up a little to expose his naval, Peter took his opportunity to admire the view. The boy was very pretty. “But I'm giving you the 'didn't murder me' discount.” The boy flashed another smile, this time, clouded with sleep.

He stretched his legs out which stung with the pleasant soreness of just lying and being still for an extended period of time. “Is there some sort of alpha pimp I should be worried about?” Peter asked as he righted himself, rubbing his eyes.

“Pimp? No, more like an alpha puppy.” Stiles chuckled. “But he has a very strong sense of right and wrong, so you better be careful.” The omega winked. It took Peter a second to remember what he was waiting for. He pulled a couple of bills from his wallet and pushed them into the omegas outstretched hand.

“You sure you can't stay longer?” He looked at the time. It was getting to be very late.

“Remember alpha puppy? He's in the same class as me. If I don't show up he'll assume I was murdered, and, well, let's just say I don't want him looking too deep into my client list; you know?”

“Fine,” he said. “Come back again.”

“You want to make another appointment?” the boys' eyes sparkled. “Just call or e-mail me the time. Mornings I usually have class.” Peter nodded and walked him to the door.

As soon as Stiles was gone he found himself missing the faint trace of omega scent.

\----------------

“Please don't take this personally, but you look like shit,” Scott said as Stiles slumped into the chair next to him. He pulled his notebook out from his bag and flipped it open to a clean page.

“Late night,” he said, hiding a yawn behind his hand.

“Forget to do your homework again?” Scott gave him a playful shove.

Stiles shook his head. “No. A client called late.”

Scott frowned, his teasing voice turned serious. “A client? I don't like you being with them that late, Stiles. They could get the wrong ideas about you.” Stiles waved him off dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah. I know how you feel, but it wasn't like that. He was respectful and I let him know it was just a one-time thing.” Scotts' shoulders relaxed a little. “Besides, he paid almost double what I usually charge.

“Was he hot?” Stiles turned behind him to look at Danny and gave him a wink.

“Guy from the museum I told you about.”

Danny nodded approvingly. “The one who kept telling you to leave, but wouldn't just get up and move?”

“Very same,” Stiles said proudly. “Always a next time, like I said.”

“You shouldn't give out information on your clients, Stiles,” Scott interrupted once more.

“I'm not giving out information, all Danny knows is that he's incredibly hot, and that describes like all of my clients. You should be flattered.” Scotty frowned.

“Say what you want about Stiles, but he's an excellent cuddler.” Danny praised.

In truth, he was probably the most prolific cuddle therapist in the whole city. Back in his high school days, he'd gotten in trouble a number of times for pumping off his pheromones wantonly to get out of class or 'encourage' an alpha into forking over their dessert. Even Danny, who found the omega to be rather annoying, had once spent a very pleasant third period snuggling him under the lacrosse field bleachers when he and his boyfriend broke up.

Scott cleared his voice. “Speaking of-”

“I know,” he nodded. “Seven.” Scott gave an appreciative smile. Danny looked between them curiously, but he knew better than to ask.

\----------------

Peter felt great. He felt better than he had all year. He wasn't quite happy, but he was good. It didn't even matter that he'd woken up half still in his work clothes and on the sofa. He even nodded at the coffee girl on his way to the elevator.

Being a newspaper editor afforded him a very generous salary, but working for his sister and needing to deal with people were enough to nullify the sparse benefits. He could have quit and found another job elsewhere, but he liked this sort of comfortable misery he'd created for himself.

He sat down at his desk and glanced over the few articles already sitting in his inbox, waiting for him to decide which were worth pursuing and which weren't. Most of them weren't.

The vast majority of them were written by half-starved, near brain dead college students who ran solely on ramen noodles and worked on the floor just below him. From just the opening paragraph Peter could tell the first article had little to no merit whatsoever. He cast it off to the side to be edited later when he had more willpower to do so. He liked to spend the first half of the day going over the ones that actually had a chance at becoming something.

The second article was slightly more promising, the grammatical mistakes were few to non-existent, and the subject matter was interesting. He gave a few marks and sent it back with a note on how to improve the sentence structure.

Lunch time came and went, and he found surprisingly few people he needed to yell at.

A few hours before the end of the day Derek knocked on his door.

“You're scaring the interns,” he said, lingering in the doorway. “Stop it.” He was the head intern coordinator. How someone like him got put in charge of a large group of people Peter would never know, and he didn't quite care. Though he supposed his nephew could be charming in small bursts.

“What?” Peter raised a brow and looked up over his second cup of coffee.

“You've been sending them weird notes. It's making them uncomfortable.”

Peter frowned. “I haven't done that.” If he had he would have readily admitted to it.

Derek pulled out a sheet of paper from behind his back. “'Needs work but shows promise,' 'a good start; use more statistics,' 'just rewrite the whole thing.'” He quoted. “I don't know what psychological mind game you're playing with them, but stop.”

Peter gave a very put-upon sigh.“Is it so unlikely that I could actually be helpful to someone? Give them real constructive criticism to help them improve as writers?”

“Yes!” Derek said, turning on his heel and slamming the door shut behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles visits other clients and Peter doesn't handle their separation well.

Stiles crawled into the Mccall household through the window. He wasn't there for a social visit, but drawing attention to it would only make Isaac upset.

Isaac Lahey was another omega, but after years of emotional and physical abuse, he occasionally needed some omega-omega cuddle time. Stiles moved onto the bed and settled himself beside the blonde werewolf without saying a thing. Isaac breathed out and rolled to one side, letting the fellow omega wrap his arms around him. Sometimes being a cuddle therapist meant doing most of the cuddling. Isaac nuzzled Stiles' forehead, and Stiles obligingly nuzzled back. Their noses pressed together in a bunny kiss.

Stiles scent had always been more spice than sweetness. Isaacs was just the opposite. It was subtle like an ocean wave but sweet like vanilla. The brunette omega nosed down into the blondes curly hair where his scent was strongest, pressing their legs together so their knees and feet touched. Isaac sighed in contentment.

The bed shifted as Scott joined them, climbing over the cuddling pair to lay down on Isaacs other side. Stiles couldn't blame him; even with his impeccable resistance, he was near helpless to ignore his omegas pheromones.

“Don't make fun of me,” Isaac said, looking up at the fellow omega with cautious, puppy-dog eyes. They were slightly reddened from crying. His tone was a command, but his expression was that of a plea.

Stiles scoffed. “You know I do this for a living, right? Also, not our first time.”

“Yeah, but you do it with alphas.” Normally he might have maintained a more professional demeanor, more by-the-book quotes about how alpha-omega biology was all routed in the same place, how they all responded to the same base desires, et cetera. It was harder with Isaac because they knew each other on a more personal level.

“You aren't the only omega who wants a quick cuddle session every now in then. There's nothing wrong with it.” Stiles closed his eyes again.

“Stiles isn't going to make fun of you, Isaac,” Scott reassured. “If he does we can sue him for breaking client-patient privilege and take all his money.” Isaac snorted, but the joke put him at ease and little-by-little he started to settle down again.

Within fifteen minutes Isaac was relaxed, his breathing even, his teary eyes dried. Scott looked over and silently mouthed 'thank you.' Stiles nodded. Sometimes it felt strange to be cuddling with his best friends mate, but there was nothing sexual about what they were doing, and, even he benefited from getting some 'snuggle time' with another omega.

\---------------

Peter felt like he'd been hit in the face with a brick. Not just any brick, but a brick that hit him so hard it left him permanently brain damaged and unable to fall asleep. Before that wiry little omega crept into his life he used to run on three, four hours of sleep at a time, now he needed at least seven just to get out of bed.

The papers he was supposed to be reviewing lay in a chaotic mess, haphazardly strewn about the desk. His computer mouse had long since gone missing, and the laptop he was sure he remembered to plug in before bed was dead. He tapped his pen against his coffee cup, trying to will himself awake. In the trash bin on the other side of the room were two more identical cups.

When the third cup helped even less than the first two he gave up and shot off another text to the annoying thing, marked appropriately as 'Nuisance' in his phone.

Come over later. It was simple enough. The small icon indicating someone was typing popped up almost immediately, but the response didn't get sent for a full fifteen minutes. Peter was about to just give up and call the boy when his text came through.

Once again, not a prostitute. I'm not avail. Until Wednesday. Wednesday was no good. Another night without sleep and he would surely put someone through a wall. Probably himself.

Doesn't work. Come tonight.

School night.

I'll pay you double. It made him sound desperate, he knew that but what right did the omega have to judge? He went around spraying his pheromones on people for fun.

Triple.

I'd rather pick another pheromonist.

Ooooh, you got me. Fine, I'll take double. I can be there at seven. Knew you liked me. Stiles concluded his message with a winking emoji.

Peter scoffed at the idea. He didn't 'like' things, especially not some spastic college students.

He could appreciate Stiles unique scent, the same way he could appreciate an expertly aged wine or handcrafted furniture. Just because he could see the value of it didn't mean he liked it. He wasn't some hormonal alpha pouncing after the first omega to shake their hips at him.

He could admire Stiles unique scent, the same way he could admire an expertly aged wine. He didn't like it.

Peter sighed in anticipation of actually being able to sleep.

There was a knock at his door. He growled.

“Go away.” Derek ignored the command and came in anyways.

“Can we talk?” he asked, without waiting for a response he entered and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Are your little interns crying about something else, now?” Derek grimaced.

“No, although Isaac says you were starring at him in the hall earlier.” Peter bared his teeth. “Apparently you called him 'smelly.'” He remembered passing the boy in the hallway, he smelled like cinnamon. Like vanilla and cinnamon. It was likely just a coincidence, but he was still annoyed by it.

“I can assure you that I am more mature than to go around insulting teenagers. Now can I get back to work, please? I have about forty more papers to go through, and each one finds a new, magical way to make me lose hope in this generation.”

“Fine,” Derek sighed, pushing himself from the wall.

“Wait,” Peter lifted his head. “Come back here.”

Derek turned looked puzzled. “What is it?”

“Why do you smell like that?” There was that scent again, that horrible, unmistakable scent. This time, there was no mingling of vanilla with it. “What were you doing?” He narrowed his eyes at his nephew, who seemed thrown off by the question. He stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Smell like what?” The scent was fading fast but it had been there.

“Like that, you don't smell like yourself.”

“Then, who do I smell like?” Peter furrowed his brow. The smell was gone and Derek was left standing there like he genuinely had no idea what was going on.

“. . . No one,” he said after a minute of contemplation. “Just not yourself.”

“You might wanna get some more sleep at night, Peter,” Derek said as he slowly edged out of the room, keeping a cautious eye on his uncle. Peter growled lowly under his breath.

“Trust me, I'm working on it.”

\------------------

“No,” said Scott firmly, standing with his arms crossed. Stiles sighed and dropped his textbook into his lap.

“It's just one night, Scotty.”

He shook his head. “I don't like it. I don't know him.”

“He texted me from his work phone. If he were planning on murdering me he wouldn't leave such direct evidence.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “The texts even had his signature attached to them. I did some research; he works for the same newspaper as Isaac, prestigious family, no prior offenses.” Stiles waved his hand. “It will be fine! Besides, you really think anyone would be dumb enough to try and kill the sheriff's kid?”

Scott raised a brow. “He knows you're the sheriff's son?”

“Well, we haven't exactly talked about it, but I'll make sure to bring it up tonight.”

“I'm driving you,” Scott insisted, grabbing his jacket off the floor. Stiles laughed.

“You don't have a car!”

“Okay, well, then I'm going with you, and I'll just walk home after, okay?”

“Scott, you're acting like an overprotective parent.” Stiles put his hands behind his head and flopped back down on his bed. Come to think of it his own overprotective parent wasn't nearly as bad as Scott was getting to be.

“I just don't want anyone taking advantage of you.” Then Scott put on his adorable, puppy brown eyes, and looked over his friend with such genuine concern that some of Stiles annoyance melted away. Only some, though. Stiles sighed.

“Fine, you can drive with me there, and I will text you when I'm done. Happy?”

“Contented,” Scott said.

They sat in silence for most of the drive, before Scott shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat.

“Have you thought about, you know?” He dropped his head a little, lifting his eyes just enough to look like a puppy who knew he'd done something wrong.

“No,” Stiles said dryly. “I don't know. There's nothing to think about.”

“You're dad's right, Stiles. You aren't getting any younger.”

“I told you, I'm not mating until after I graduate college.”

“What if you found your soul mate?” Stiles sighed. He would always love Scott and the hopeless romantic he had become, but that life wasn't for him.

“If I found my soul mate they wouldn't want me performing 'pheromone therapy'” he lifted his fingers off the steering wheel to make air quotations around the word, “and then how would I pay for college?”

“If he's your soul mate, then he'll support you.”

“I don't want someone to support me. I want to support myself. I want someone who respects me. I don't want to be one of those people who's entire identity is based off of their mate.”

“I didn't mean financially, I just meant-”

“We're here,” Stiles interrupted, pulling sharply into the parking lot. Scott jerked forward as he applied the break.

“Stiles,” he chastised, rubbing his head. He looked out the window. “Oh . . . damn,” he said, eyes widening. “This place is fucking huge.”

“It's just an apartment building,” Stiles said with a shrug. He could almost feel the self-satisfied smirk Peter would have given if he'd heard the compliment for himself. It took Scott a second to remember that he was supposed to be leaving. He turned back to his friend.

“Listen, just, be safe okay?” Stiles nodded.

“I always am.”

\-------------------

Peter looked tired, more so than the last few times he'd seen the were. He had dark circles around his eyes, and they weren't focusing in on him like they had last time. He felt less like he was under the gaze of a predator and more like the gaze of a sleepy tomcat. There was still a danger there, but a reluctant one.

Stiles stepped inside. The second thing he noticed was that the apartment was faintly cinnamon scented. He spotted a brown candle sitting on the edge of the end table, and another in the kitchen.

“Stiles, would you please stop hovering and come sit down?” Peter mumbled. His face was resting on one hand as he stared blankly at the television set.

“Not get enough sleep last night, big guy?” Stiles asked with a grin, crossing the room to flop down on the sofa. Peter grunted and wrapped an arm around the younger males waist. Stiles allowed himself to be pulled closer and repositioned so his head was tucked under Peters' chin, facing the T.V.

“Something like that,” Peter grumbled.

“Before I forget – my fathers the sheriff.”

“What?” Peter looked down at him. Stiles shrugged.

“Just fulfilling a promise.”

“Okay?” Peter grabbed the remote off the coffee table and flicked the channel to some action movie.

“What are you doing?” from his new position he couldn't see Peters' eyes, but he could feel the alphas nose pressing to his temple.

“We're just watching a movie.” Stiles worried his lip.

“You're really not supposed to get distracted. You're supposed to just let yourself relax.”

“It's so I don't fall asleep,” Peter explained, exasperated. Stiles e really didn't want to have to wake him up later demanding money, and the alpha did look pretty exhausted.

“Alright,” Stiles agreed, leaning into Peters hold and allowing the alpha to pull him against his chest. It felt less like a therapy session and more like a first date.

The movie that played in the background was some cheesy action flick that Stiles found himself begrudgingly paying attention too. It was hard not to when the sounds of machine-gun fire and shouting were going off on the screen. He squinted one eye open and kept it on the television. Peter had a nice television too, he had a nice everything. If the man were even the slightest bit more hospitable there was no doubt he'd have a million and a half omegas lined up outside his door day and night.

He was so relaxed and lost in his thoughts he almost didn't notice the vibration of his phone in his pocket. He rolled over slightly so he could reach the device and pulled it out. Peter watched him as he unlocked the screen and turned off the alarm.

Yawning, Stiles sat back up again. “Times up,” he said, pulling back his scent. Peter grumbled but propped himself up as well, reaching into his pocket he pulled out an envelope and handed it over to the omega.

Stiles grinned. “Thank you!” he said pleasantly as he took the envelope. Once more Peter grunted. “You want to make another appointment now, or-” Peter scoffed.

“I'm sure twice was quite enough, thank you.” Peter lay back down on the sofa, resting his arms behind his head.

“Suit yourself, but I bet I'll get a call within the week,” Stiles winked.

Peter felt challenged to prove him wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

“I'm not sure I quite understand the problem.” Deaton checked over the list of symptoms he'd been handed. There were a few Peter neglected to include, but if Deaton were the doctor he claimed to be then he could figure out his illness without them.

“Obviously I've been poisoned.” He didn't just think he was poisoned, he was positive of it. Nothing else could explain why his heart had suddenly taken to fluttering.

“You wrote that you've been having heart palpitations- for how long, and how frequently?” Deaton wore the carefully blank expression of a concerned but skeptical doctor as he flipped through the chart. He glanced up a few times with an unreadable expression.

“A week now. Several times a day.” Just as he said it something strange and wriggling moved around in his stomach.

“A week ago was the last time you saw this Stiles person?”

“Yes, and since then I haven't been able to get a decent nights sleep. The scent of cinnamon makes my hands sweat, and my heart keeps clenching.” He squeezed his hand into a fist in emphasis over his chest. “I feel like there's a snake loose in my stomach. It's horrible.

“This all happened after I started seeing him. I've never had these,” Peter shifted his position, “symptoms before.” He'd actually never even been sick before now.

“I see,” Deaton hummed. “Tell me, how exactly does the scent of cinnamon effect you? How do you feel when you smell it? After you smell it?”

“I feel like,” Peter thought for a second. “My heart feels like it's beating too fast. My hands get sweaty. My stomach is too warm and too cold at the same time. Then it's gone and I just feel angry.”

“Any sexual attraction?”

“To a skinny, spastic, college student? No. He drummed his claws anxiously along the exam table as his heart did another frantic jerk and spasm. Stiles warm, honey eyes popped into his mind. “Just tell me what he did to me.”

Deaton deposited the chart onto his desk and stood in front of the werewolf.

“I have an idea of what might be going on, but you're going to have to let me listen to your pulse first.”

Peter held his arm out, pulling his sleeve up to his elbow. “Fine.”

Deaton took his wrist and placed two cold fingers to his skin, wordlessly mouthing the rhythm.

“Well?” Peter asked, when a few seconds passed and the man sad nothing.

“Be patient. Tell me about the first time you met Stiles.” The doctor opened his eyes.

“The brat assaulted me in a museum. He rubbed his scent all over me and refused to leave.”

“I see.” Deaton hummed. His brown eyes flicked to Peter's face and then back to his arm. “But you still made an appointment with him anyways and saw him a little while later?”

“I was sleep-deprived and irritable. I would have tried chanting in a circle if I thought it would have helped,” Peter shrugged, “and now look - I'm diseased because of it.”

Deaton released the wolves wrist and peeled off his gloves.

“Unfortunately, I think I know what's wrong with you. You do have a disease. It might be terminal, it's definitely incurable.”

Peters' eyes flashed dangerously yellow as he gripped onto the table. “What is it?” He was going to kill Stiles, literally kill him. First, he was going to get his money back, and then-

“You're trying to form a mating bond with him. Your first mating bond.” Deaton had the nerve to smile.

“Is that some kind of joke?” he asked when Deaton didn't continue.

“No, Peter. That's why your heart is beating faster, you're thinking about him often, your insomnia. It's all fairly straightforward stuff. If you truly don't want to form a bond with Stiles then I'd suggest getting out more, maybe try online dating.” Deaton hid his mouth behind his hand as he spoke.

“I'm not trying to mate.” Peter narrowed his eyes down to shining slits of yellow. “I've never had a mate, I've never wanted a mate, and if I did want one it wouldn't be him!”He stood from the chair in a sudden movement. “He's so spastic it's a wonder he can stay still for more than thirty seconds. His knees and elbows always dig into my sides, and he-” he cut himself off when he realized he was starting to ramble. He clenched his mouth shut tight.

“Okay, okay. Let's try going over your symptoms again, then, shall we?” he wasn't trying to hide the smile anymore as he looked back at the irate were. “I could always be wrong. Do you think about him often?”

“Well yeah. Of course.” Peter shrugged.

“Of course?”

Peter scoffed. “He's someone who I have a professional relationship with. I have to make appointments with him, things like that.”

“So you think often about making appointments? With him?” Deaton moved on quickly when Peter shot him a nasty look.

“Your heart beats faster when you smell him?”

Or anything like him. “Yes. It's not my fault. He rubs his pheromones all over me.” Peter shrugged. “Biology reacts in ways we don't always like.”

“But you want to be with him?”

“Yes – no! I do not care about a fragile, insignificant mess of pumping pheromones wrapped inside a pale body.” He felt the phantom pressure of Stiles head rubbing up and down his collarbone. His fingers twitched instinctively to wrap around the nonexistent body he could still feel cuddling close to him. The thought only made him angrier as the snake in his stomach twisted and knotted inside of him.

“When I took your pulse it started to beat faster when you talked about him. I can give you an anxiety medication to help with the physical symptoms, but the rest is out of my hands. Maybe talk about your feelings-”

“I don't have any feelings!”

\--------------------------

Stiles bit his lip and opened up the message screen again. Just like every other time, it was empty. He rechecked his e-mail; a few confirmations, but nothing new. He sighed and set it back down on his desk.

Danny poked him in the arm with a pencil. “That guy never call you back?”

“No, he didn't.” Stiles pursed his lips. He turned to face his friend. “I mean, it's not like I should really care, a clients a client, but, I just . . . I don't know.”

“Sooo, you like him,” said Lydia, flipping a lock of strawberry blonde hair behind her head as she joined the trio at their usual library table.

“Okay, maybe a little,” Stiles ducked his head a bit shamefully. Danny gave a very self-satisfied smirk. “He's sarcasm and sass, packaged inside of a tight clothes wearing, firm-muscled body. I'd say you could grate cheese on those abs, but the cheese would melt from the heat.” He spread his hands out helplessly.

“Ooooh, Stiles got a crush.” Danny taunted.

“I do not! I am a professional. The most professionalist professional ever. Professional professionals do not get crushes on their clients.” Lydia and Danny shared a look, Scott gave a scowl.

\-----------------------

For the first half of the day, Peter edited the intern's articles, the second half he spent returning said articles and fending off Derek's various complaints about his attitude and the less pleasant of his critiques. On this day, however, his work was impeded by the unannounced and only partially welcome visit of Laura to his office. She was permitted to stay only when he noticed a second cup of coffee in her hand. If nothing else, she knew well the art of bribery.

“I'm just feeling a little under the weather.” He said when she looked at the scattered mess his usually immaculate workspace had become. Deaton's words hadn't left his head. They were lies, obviously, but what possible reason did the man have to lie about him having a mating bond?

“Does this have anything to do with the company party on Friday?” Laura sounded doubtful.

“The - ? Oh, shit.” Peter groaned, rubbing his temples. The invitation had been hastily discarded weeks ago in an effort to ignore it's existence entirely. Throwing it out hadn't worked in the past, either. “I actually had forgotten about it.” Not that he felt too badly about it.

“You can't miss this one. You have to go.” She demanded, sitting down one of the armchairs without asking permission.

Sitting through a two-hour meeting was bad enough; sitting through an entire evening would make him lose his mind. The mere thought caused his fingers to itch with the presence of claws just below the surface.

“Yes, of course, you can stay, Laura. I don't have anything else I could be doing right now,” he made a very unamused face as he took a sip of the still steaming coffee, just the right temperature to make even a were wince. At least it wasn't cinnamon flavored.

He swallowed down a mouthful and placed the cup back on the desk. “I went to the pack meeting; is that not enough?”

“No. Because pack and work are separate. Or at least, we try to keep them that way,” she smiled a little sheepishly. It was a hard line to sell when most of the employees had at least some connection – if not direct relation – to the Hale pack.

“It'd be a lot easier if your mother wasn't so blatantly in favor of nepotism.”

“You shouldn't complain about her nepotism. If she didn't like having her family so close you would have been fired a long time ago, on grounds of souring everyone’s mood, every day, all day.” Peter's lips quirked into a bit of a smile. He liked his nieces and nephews, even if they didn't always like him. Laura pissed him off with her constant 'I know what's best' attitude, but at least she tried. She didn't just roll over and do things her mothers' way if she didn't agree with them, either. That was always a bonus.

“Maybe you could try bringing someone, a friend or like, an omega?” She both tried and failed to keep her tone casual as she peered over the lid of her own coffee.

“Is that your roundabout way of asking if I have a mate?” His brain went to Stiles again, and he reached for his cup to keep from shuddering. Laura didn't notice as she flashed her brilliant teeth at him.

“It might be. Do you have someone like that that you could invite?” She was just a little too eager to be endearing about the question.

“No, even if I did the last thing I'd do was introduce them to my family.”

Laura leaned back and sighed. “Suit yourself, but even if you come alone you're still coming.” Peter groaned.

“Well this has been a delightful talk, but I'd like to get back to my actual job now if you don't mind.”

“You're welcome for the coffee,” she beamed as she stood and left.

Peter sighed and glared down at the mess of edits before him. He picked up the revisions he'd meant to drop off earlier, cursing himself slightly for not just making Laura do it. He wondered if it was too late to call her back, but then, of course, he'd owe her a favor. That favor would probably be a setup with some sweet, innocent omega with kind eyes and the unfortunate belief that people could be fixed.

He thought again of Stiles, the tricky little fox.

You're trying to bond, Peter.

He clenched his hands. No, he wasn't. He just had a very odd, very unheard of reaction to omega pheromones. He would prove it, even. He'd make an appointment with him, get through Talia's party, and then dump the omega for good. Because he wasn't trying to mate him.

First, he had to make a phone call.

“Stiles?” Peter said, and his heart squeezed tight while he waited for the brunettes quirky voice.

“Peter!” There was the over-the-top enthusiasm he expected. He tried not to feel happy about it. “How can I help you on this lovely day?”

“Someone's happy this morning.” He imagined Stiles scratching his head and fidgeting around like he always did.

“I just – I just got unexpected news, is all.”

“Oh, really? Anything you'd care to share?”

“No.” Stiles tone was firm, resolute. “Did you want to make another appointment?” The abrupt change of direction caused Peter to falter for a moment. He searched around for the invitation on his desk.

“Yes . . . how's the fourteenth?”

“What time?”

“Around six.”

“Okay, I can be-”

“Not at my apartment, though. Somewhere else.” He found the invitation underneath his keyboard and pulled out the slip of paper, quickly reading over its contents. “The Hadison building over on seventh.”

“Wait, that really fancy ballroom place? Why would you want to go there?”

“My work is having an event, I need-”

“Yeah, no sorry. No. Not happening.” His happy voice turned sour in an instant.

“Well, why not?” Peter asked, gripping the card tighter. “You said you were free.”

“Because I'm not a prostitute. I don't escort people, I don't go on dates, and I'm not going to show up and play happy little omega by your side.”

“Fine, then I won't pay you and you can drive yourself.”

“Wait . . . really? You just want me to go?”

“Yes,” said Peter. “Just come. Do nothing else, but be your happy little omega self. Maybe scent a few innocent bystanders while you're at it.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he could practically hear the grin returning to the boy's face. It didn't make Peter smile because he didn't care about him. If his lips twitched upwards it was just a coincidence.

“Good. I'll text you the information.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. Sorry it took so long to get out, I was having massive writers block T.T

Stiles felt completely out of place. He stuck out like a weed in a rose garden. A lanky weed with unmanageable hair and a habit for nervous lip biting. He spent five minutes trying to instruct the valet on how to put the jeep into shift before he gave up and just let Stiles park the car himself. It was like being a rabbit in a literal wolves den waiting for Peter to show up.

Don't worry about dressing too nicely. It's just a work party, not a big deal. Stiles wore a bitter scowl. The wolf had apparently lied.

He watched women in dresses that barely covered their thighs walk in on the arms of men who could have stepped out of a fashion magazine. Considering the party was for a publisher, it wasn't doubtful that they hadn't.

He looked down at his modest dress shirt and black pants that Lydia called 'charming.' In hindsight, her tone sounded patronizing, like a mother sending her child out to his first day of school. A small part of him wanted to duck back inside his car and hide until the whole event was over. It wasn't too late to make it back to his home and order Chinese food. Then he saw a figure out of the corner of his eye that he'd recognize anywhere; even surrounded by a sea of models.

“Peter,” he hissed as soon as the wolf was within earshot. The wolves clothes were much nicer than the ones he picked, they could have been straight out of a J. Crew catalog.

Stiles crossed his arms and wrinkled his nose at him.

“You told me to dress nicely. Those people are dressed a lot nicer than 'nicely.'” His brown eyes narrowed underneath the lamplight. “You're dressed a lot nicer than nicely.” Peter looked him up and down, ignoring his complaint entirely.

“It's lovely to see you, Stiles. I think you look-”

“Don't say charming,” Stiles warned with a raised finger.

“I was going to say handsome, but I don't mind sparing you a compliment.” His usual smirk returned. “Come, Stiles,” He offered his arm to him, and despite his annoyance, Stiles took it without hesitation. He felt a little bit less self-conscious attached to someone like Peter, whose every movement exuded confidence and poise.

“You've been ignoring me,” Stiles said as Peter guided him inside the building.

“I think you would have had to call me for me to be ignoring you. I can't ignore what isn't there.”

“It's sort of your job to call me. Remember? You haven't called me in a while.” Stiles tried not to let the smidgen of hurt leach into his voice. He'd been happy to get Peters phone call, and even happier to have been invited out on a date he wasn't paid to go on.

“We had a bet,” Peter said with the graceful return of his usual smirk. “I won.”

“Wha- Oh, right,” Stiles remembered his last, challenging words to Peter. “I wasn't serious, you know.”

“Serious or not, I still won.” Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

The room Peter led them into was large and spacious. He'd been there once or twice before for the policeman's ball the town put on once a year. The hall was usually decorated a lot more modestly than the way it was now, with the curtains and table clothes made of regular white cloth, rather than the silky red ones that overlaid the round tables. Stiles had the urge to reach out and touch one, but for the sake of not embarrassing himself he refrained.

He was too busy admiring the surroundings to notice the approach of a light eyed woman in a navy cocktail dress.

“Peter,” she greeted. Stiles turned back just in time to see her eyes linger on him for a second too long. “I'm glad you decided to come.” She and Peter bore a subtle, familial resemblance. Her eyes were the same, cool shade of blue, and she held herself with the same confident pride.

“Laura,” Peter greeted, his tone containing less affection. “How could I resist, after you forced me?” It made Stiles feel a little better to know that this event hadn't been Peters idea. Laura's smile only widened.

“I'd do it again, too. Introduce me to your friend,” she demanded, motioning towards Stiles with the drink she held in one hand. Her eyes went to him again. She looked him up and down with scrutiny, but peculiarly enough the gaze didn't seem unfriendly.

“His name is Stiles,” said Peter, before he could answer for himself. Peter placed his arm down firmly against the boy's shoulder. Stiles nodded his head in greeting.

Laura's eyes lit up in an odd manner, as though she recognized his name from somewhere. If she did she didn't say anything about it.

“Well, it's very nice to meet you,” she stuck her hand out. It took Stiles a second to realize what she wanted. “I'm Peters niece, Laura.” She carried herself in much the same way as her uncle, with confident, graceful movements.

“Oh, yeah, you too,” he shook her hand awkwardly, very aware of the temperature difference between them. Peters grip on him tightened as Stiles' hand touched his nieces.

“How do you two know each other?” She looked between the pair, from Peters surly face to Stiles caught-in-the-headlights expression.

“Uhm-”

“I was doing a piece on the pseudo-science of pheromone treatment, and Stiles was gracious enough to grant me an interview.”

“Oh, right.” Stiles agreed. “That's what happened.” The hand Peter had on his shoulder tightened and released.

“Is that so?” Laura asked, settling her eyes on his face.

Stiles nodded. “Yup, he asked me lots of questions. Was very rude. Normal journalism stuff.”

Laura laughed. “That sounds like our Peter, how di-”

Peter bristled. “Oh, would you look at that? We've been here all of fifteen minutes and I haven't gotten you any wine. I'll be right back, darling.” Abruptly, before Laura or Stiles could interject Peter was gone, disappearing into the crowd.

Laura turned to Stiles with a frown.

“My mother just got here. I think he smelled her and decided to make an exit before she could find him.” Laura winked. “I'm sure he'll be back as soon as she's gone. C'mon, let's go sit down where it's quieter so we can talk.” She grabbed Stiles hand and started tugging him along towards the back wall of the ballroom.

“Wait, but what if Peter can't find us?” he asked as he was dragged unwillingly through the crowd.

“He'll find us, trust me.” She dragged him back over to a few benches lining the back wall and sat down. “He always finds what he's looking for. Sit down, Stiles. Don't be a stranger.” She smiled at him. Stiles could find no logical reason not too, so he took his place sitting on the other end of the bench. Laura slid closer.

“So, Stiles. You do pheromone therapy for a living, is that right?” Her knee brushed against his and Stiles found himself looking everywhere but at the woman next to him.

“Uh, yeah. I'm in school too, I want to do something with law enforcement in the future, but I'm not sure what.”

“That's a very noble goal,” she praised. She set her glass down on the floor and brushed her hands over her skirt. “How did you get into therapy work?”

“People always told me I had a nice scent as a kid,” Stiles shrugged. “I just sorta fell into it.” Laura nodded.

“Do you like doing it?”

“I guess, yeah. It pays my bills pretty well, and I get to cuddle up to lots of attractive people,” Stiles grinned.

“You know,” her hand closed around his arm, squeezing it lightly. Stiles looked up at her. Her painted lips curled into a solicitous smile. “I think I might know someone who could use your help if you're willing?” she tilted her head slightly to the side.

“O-oh,” Stile's eyes widened. “Oh, trust me, I'm kind of already aware. It's, trust me. It's getting there.” He fumbled around for his words. Peter didn't seem like the type to share his personal business with his family, and Stiles wasn't about to break confidentiality agreements for a pretty face. Laura looked surprised.

“Oh, so Isaac already spoke with you, then?”

“Isaac?” Stiles blinked.

“About my brother, Derek? Isaac works down the hall from me, I overheard him speaking about how much pheromone therapy has helped him with his issues, and I asked him to recommend someone to me. He mentioned your name. You are the same Stiles, right?”

“Uhm, yes? Yes. Isaac told me those things.” He nodded vigorously to cover his tracks.

Laura beamed at him. “So you'll do it then? You'll help Derek? We'll pay, of course.”

“Yes?” he said uncertainly.

“That's so good to hear.” Her hand squeezed his arm tighter, almost painfully in her enthusiasm. She looked behind him a second later, at some invisible figure just past his shoulder.

“Oh, Peter. Guess who's going to be Derek's new therapist?”

\- - - - - - - - - -

“Derek?” Peter growled. “My nephew, Derek?” He held Stiles up against the wall with one hand, their noses almost touching. Laura had gone off to greet another relative, leaving him alone with annoyed, possessive alpha.

“Look, she practically forced me too! She came over, brushing her hands all up on me, flipping her hair, what the hell was I supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to say no!”

“I can have more than one client, Peter! In fact, I have literal dozens.” Peter snarled.

“You don't need to be adding any more of my family members to your list.”

“Why do you care? Are you jealous? You're the one who's been ignoring me.”

Peter took his hand and grasped the nape of Stile's neck. He narrowed his eyes, and Stiles could feel claws poking into his skin near his jugular. A heavy, thick scent of patchouli and cedar wood filled his nostrils. Then Peter released him, wiping his hand on Stile's arm as he did. The smell was much stronger than his own, omega scent, but it conveyed the same meaning.

“Did you just musk me?!” Stiles practically squealed. Peter repeated the motion again, only this time along the side of his throat, instead of the back. Stiles shuddered as the warm hand ran over his skin.

“How's it feel? You like getting your scent on people, don't you?” Stiles growled. He pushed back on Peter's chest and left his own scent there. Peter scoffed and grasped his chin, tilting his head up so they were eye-to-eye. Stiles retaliated with a swipe of his own down Peters firm chest, leaving a scent of cinnamon in his place.

Peter responded in turn by shoving Stiles back against the wall and kissing him hard on his lips. Stile's heart jumped from his chest to his throat in an instant. He wrapped his arms around Peter's neck and kissed him back .

They hardly noticed as the hall filled with their combined patchouli and cinnamon scent.

\- - - - - - - - – - - -

“And that my children, is how I met your father,” Stiles finished, sipping the last of his tea from his mug. He sat on Peters sofa, a position he'd become intimately familiar with, although his usual companion was out at work.

Cora glared at him. “Peter isn't my father.”

“I know,” said Stiles with a shrug. “I'm just practicing for when we have kids some day. What'd you think?”

“Well,” she thought for a second. “It begins with assault. I think it's a much better romance story than the ones that don't begin with assault.”

“It wasn't assault,” Stiles insisted. “It was creative marketing! Creative marketing that involved my body, and his body, and me rubbing it against-”

“I don't need to hear the rest! I didn't need to hear the first part! I just wanted to know why we're paying to have scents removed from the hall.”

“And I gave you the long version,” Stiles shrugged, sipping his tea. “I see no issue.”

“I would have preferred condensed. It didn't answer my question anyways.”

“What was your question?” Stiles asked with a frown, having forgotten before the story began.

“Why is my mom having the ballroom descented?”

**Author's Note:**

> There _might_ be a part two to this, but I'm not sure. I wrote it while waiting for a three hour lecture to end T.T
> 
> Edit: I am going to write multiple chapters of this, but they may take a little while to complete.


End file.
